


Finding William Turner

by Zwarte Parel (Celandine)



Series: Will Turner Sequence [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: Coming of Age, Drama, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-01
Updated: 2003-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celandine/pseuds/Zwarte%20Parel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Turner leaves home to seek his father, finding trouble on the way. Some violence, not graphic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Departure

The room was close with the smells of illness and the smoke of the fire that kept his mother warm. The boy stood by his mother's bedside, listening to her faint voice.

"When I am gone," she paused and coughed into the rag she held, leaving a stain of blood to add to the many that already spotted it, "there will be nothing for you here. You know why you haven't been apprenticed yet."

"My father left no word with you what trade he wished me to follow," he said.

She nodded. "Now it has been three years since he has been in Portsmouth. It may be that some ill has befallen him, or he may simply have been unable to come for some reason. I hope it is the latter. I do not know where he might be, but he told me that most of his trading was done in the Caribbean, out of Port Royal in Jamaica. I want you to go there, Will, to find him."

"How?" Will looked around the small, nearly bare room. Since his mother had become so weak, she had been unable to work and they had been selling off their possessions one by one in order to pay the rent and buy food, though Will had contributed what he could, running errands for the local shopkeeper for a few odd pence. The only thing of value that he could think of they still had was the medallion that his father had sent to him two years ago, a gold piece with a skull on it. Will thought it must be a souvenir of an encounter with a pirate ship, in which his father's vessel had defeated those criminals, and treasured it – he would not sell it for any money.

His mother's sunken eyes gleamed. "Look in the trunk. On the right-hand side, at the bottom, there is a loose piece; pull it up."

From its hiding place Will pulled out a large folded piece of paper, a bit rubbed along the creases.

"That, Will, is a warrant on a moneylender. Your father left it for you."

Carefully Will spelled out the writing on it, and looked at his mother in amazement. "Two hundred pounds?"

"I didn't want it to be spent on small things," she answered his unspoken question. "It was always meant to ensure your future. I had thought to use it for an apprenticeship, perhaps even in London, but now it would be better spent to take you to your father. This man might be reluctant to give you the money, though, so we must go to him together, tomorrow."

Will was still too much astonished to argue with her, despite his worry that she was unfit even to walk from their lodgings to this banker, or whatever he was.

His worry was not misplaced. She managed to walk so far, secure the money, and return partway home, and then collapsed on the street. Some kindly bystanders helped Will carry her home, but they both knew that time was short. His mother sent to find one Captain Charles Kirtland, master of the _Berenice_ , whom she knew slightly and trusted to take her son safely to the Caribbean.

Kirtland was a genial man with a short black beard and a broad face. Will liked him and was glad that he would be traveling on the man's ship. He was not privy to the negotiations his mother made with the captain, but after Kirtland had gone, she told him that his passage was paid for and that he would have a share in the cargo, so that once he arrived and it was sold, he would have money to support him while he looked for his father. She gave him five pounds that she had held out for any immediate expenses he might have on arrival.

"William Turner," she said over and over. "A merchant sailor, last known to be sailing on the _Yancy_. Ask for him – from what he told me he is well known in those parts. Someone will be able to help you."

Will assured her that all would be well, but his throat was tight as he looked at her. Her skin was drawn fine and taut over her bones, and there were hectic spots of color on her cheeks. She smiled and said, "Now that is settled, I can rest comfortably for a change. Sit here by me."

Obediently Will sat and held her hand as she fell asleep. He curled up beside her on the bed and dozed off himself.

In the morning he woke, stiff and cramped. He had forgotten to bank the fire and it had gone out. He went next door to borrow some coals, and after making it up again, turned to shake his mother gently awake. She did not stir.

Will sat on the floor, holding her unmoving hand, his head bowed to the mattress on which his mother's body lay. Through the morning he sat so, but at last he moved and searched through the room for anything he might want to take with him. There was little enough, and it all made up into a bundle that even a lad of thirteen could carry. Hoisting it, he went to tell Father Thomas, vicar of St. Michael's, and ask him to see that his mother was buried decently, giving the man fifteen shillings.

The vicar looked concerned. "What are you going to do, lad? Not apprenticed yet, are you?"

"No," Will spoke proudly. "I'm going to emigrate. My father left money for me. I'm going to the Caribbean – I sail on the _Berenice_ in three days."

"We'll have the funeral service the day after tomorrow, then, so you can be here. I'll send for Goody Hutchins to prepare your mother for burial. Ten of the clock."

Will nodded. He was glad that the _Berenice_ sailed no sooner.

His last few days in Portsmouth passed in a blur, as he visited his favorite places and said farewell to his friends. The day of the funeral was rainy, and he thought it seemed only right. There were only a few people present – his mother had always been close-mouthed about her family. Will did not even know if he had any living relatives besides his father, assuming William Turner still lived.

When it was over, he went back to the ship, where he had been staying under Captain Kirtland's eye. They were to catch the mid-morning tide out of the harbor next day.

After a brief period of seasickness, Will quickly adjusted to the motion of the ship and grew to enjoy it. As a paying passenger, and one with no responsibilities until they reached Jamaica, he found himself with nothing to do, and so spent much of his time observing the sailors as they worked, and watching the sea and sky slip past. Day by day brought small differences: the color of the water became brighter as the sun's rays strengthened, and when the men fished for a change in their diet he saw varieties he had never seen at the fishmongers' at home. He thought the life of a sailor seemed quite desirable, and hoped that when he found his father he might convince him to let him do that, rather than some dull and ordinary apprenticeship as a tanner or such.


	2. Pirates

Nearing their destination, the weather suddenly shifted. Instead of the clear skies and bright sun that they had enjoyed most of the way, the air was thick with mist. Captain Kirtland ordered most of the sails reefed, lest with speed they drive onto shoals before they knew it. Will heard the sailors grumbling at the delay, when they wanted to get to port as fast as possible and spend their wages on better drink than they had in rations and on women. Listening to them, for the first time Will wondered about his parents. Had his mother been one of those women for his father? Could that be why he had not been back to Portsmouth for three years?

He touched the medallion that hung on a chain around his neck, under his shirt lest the gold tempt someone to try to steal it from him. No – his father was a good man, he was sure of that. He had not forgotten them. William Turner had left money for his son, had sent him this trinket since he had last been home. Whatever had kept him from returning since then, Will was certain that his father intended to do so.

"Can't see a thing in this murk," he heard one of the sailors mutter. "Not natural, not at this season."

It was Johnny speaking. Will liked Johnny, who was only a few years older, but he agreed with the man who replied, " 'Ow do you know what's natural? 'Ave you been 'ere so much that you know the weather for all seasons?"

"No," Johnny had to admit. "It just seems. . . odd somehow."

"Can't last forever, and we'll be to port soon."

"How soon?" Will asked.

"A few days, maybe a week if it stays foggy like this. Anxious to be there, are you?" said the other man – Ned, Will remembered he was called.

"A bit. I've never been out of Portsmouth before, much less out of England."

"And you're the lad looking for his father, aren't you? What was the name?"

"He's called William Turner, just like I am. Last I heard he was sailing on the _Yancy_ , making the three-cornered run to Africa and the Caribbean. You don't know him, do you?" asked Will eagerly.

"Afraid not, son. I've heard of the _Yancy_ , but never heard of no William Turner on her. But some men changes ships pretty regular-like. I hope you find him," Ned said.

Will nodded in resignation. He had asked most of the men on board if they knew William Turner, and had received universal negatives. Still, he assured himself, once in port he would have a much better chance.

"Hold on." Johnny cocked his head. "What's that?"

They all three looked over the rail, peering through the fog for the source of the sound. At first Will saw nothing. Then Ned pointed with a trembling hand. "Look!"

Out of the mist loomed a vessel with tattered black sails. Will felt his mouth open as he recognized the symbol on the flag she flew – a skull-and-crossbones. The _Berenice_ was about to be attacked by a pirate ship, despite her own English colors. Will wondered if that meant the pirates were Spanish, retaliating for English privateering efforts. Johnny shook his shoulder. "Wake up, Will. You're not big enough to be much help, I'm afraid. You'd do better to go below. Ned's warning the captain."

"Please, let me help. I'm sure I can do something."

Johnny looked at him doubtfully. "Maybe you can help bring powder from the hold to the cannons. Go on, then, you know where it is. Lend a hand."

The next hour was a whirlwind of activity as the two ships maneuvered and the crew of the _Berenice_ brought their cannon into position. A merchant ship, the _Berenice_ was well-armed and her crew had experience with being attacked. She had fought off a pirate on her last voyage, Johnny had told Will several weeks before. At the time Will had thought that it would be exciting to meet a pirate, but now he began to reconsider.

Loud, that was what it was, and frightening to see the great iron balls tear through the rigging and send bits of the deck spinning off into the water. The sweating men ignored it, so Will tried to as well. He was, conversely, pleased when one of their own shots smashed into the enemy deck and went through the rail.

The firing continued. Will saw that the enemy were preparing grapples, ready to board when they thought that the _Berenice_ was weakened enough. He dodged around the mast and came to a halt on the far side of the deck from the pirate ship. There he paused, not sure what to do. He was afraid to go below, but wanted to stay out of the way; his only knife was a small one, for the table, not for fighting. As he hesitated, the decision was made for him. A shot from an enemy cannon crashed into the deck beside him and hurled him through a gap in the railing.

With a splutter Will managed to get his head above the water. Despite living in a port town his whole life, like most of his comrades, Will had never really learned to swim; at best he could paddle himself about in shallow water for a short time. Several days from landfall – he knew he could never swim so far. He looked about in the water for something to help him keep afloat until, he hoped, the _Berenice_ 's crew would have fought off her attackers and might be able to pick him up.

Lady Fortune smiled. A hatch cover from the deck had fallen nearly intact into the water. Will pulled himself up onto it and sprawled out flat to keep it as steady as possible. He used his hands to paddle around so that he could see what was happening to the _Berenice_. As he watched, it became clear that his friends' valiant efforts were not enough. Shot after shot crashed into the ship. It appeared that the pirates had no intention of taking it with a prize crew, careless of damage as they seemed.

By now Will had drifted far enough from the combat that he could see some of the deck. The pirates had swarmed across and were taking his friends captive, disappearing below and bringing up the most valuable items from the hold, hauling them across to their own ship. Will knew what would happen next, from all the stories he had heard. His expectations were fulfilled when he saw one man emerge from the holds of the _Berenice_ with a torch and the enemy ship disengage its grapples and begin to move off. Will was still watching, wondering what he should do, when the _Berenice_ exploded. He idly noticed a piece of wood hurtling toward him, before pain engulfed him and he knew nothing more.


	3. The Governor's Daughter

Will woke, his throat too dry to scream, grabbing out for anything to stop the world from spinning around him. His hand touched – someone.

"It's all right. I'm Elizabeth Swann."

He could scarcely see the face of the girl who stood above him, but he remembered his manners and croaked out, "Will Turner," in reply, before the sky began to go around and around above and he again lost consciousness.

When he woke once more, he was in darkness, but it was a familiar and friendly sort of darkness, full of the sounds of sleeping men. He was in a hammock, and at first he thought that he must have dreamed the attack on the _Berenice_. The pain in his head told him differently. He put a shaking hand up and tenderly felt the lump above his left ear.

It had happened, all of it. What would become of him now? Captain Kirtland was gone, who might have helped him find his father. Of even more concern, everything Will possessed in the world had gone down with that ship, except the clothes he wore. He reached for the medallion around his neck, thinking that if he had no choice, the gold might make the difference, though he would be reluctant to lose the only thing he had left of either parent. It was gone. Will felt a pang of despair. The chain must have broken, or slipped off while he was in the water. Now he had nothing, nothing. In the safe darkness he wept – for himself, for his dead mother and lost father, for the uncertainties of the world.

Morning brought more hope. The lieutenant, Norrington, told him that they had searched the wreckage, finding no survivors, but that they had salvaged some of the goods that the _Berenice_ was carrying and Will would be entitled to a share. That would pay for his passage the rest of the way to Jamaica and still leave him a little, though he would have to either find William Turner almost immediately or obtain employment of some sort to support himself.

Venturing out on deck, squinting into the bright sun that had finally replaced the fog of the past days, the first person Will saw there was the girl from the day before. What was a lass like that doing aboard? She came to him at once, reminding him of her name, and he learned that she was the daughter of Weatherby Swann, who was journeying to be governor of the colony at Port Royal.

Will did not want to talk much about his mother, but he told Elizabeth that she was dead and that he was hoping to find his father, a merchant sailor, in the Caribbean, where he had last intended to go.

"Oh, I do hope that you find him," said Elizabeth. He thought she looked relieved, but could not understand why. "I will ask my father if he can help you. He will be able to make inquiries that you could not make, I'm sure."

"Thank you, Miss Elizabeth. I would be very grateful for any help your father could give me."

"Now," she said, "if you don't mind, would you tell me about the pirates? I think they're fascinating. I wish that I had been there."

"You don't, miss, honestly." Will shivered, even in the hot sun. "This lot were mad. They didn't even fire a warning shot, and they destroyed the ship rather than taking her. I don't know what they wanted, at all. I was lucky to escape – I saw all the rest of the crew and passengers taken prisoner."

"Perhaps the pirates were looking for someone in particular," Elizabeth speculated, "although how they could have known which ship to attack, I can't imagine."

"Nor can I."

"But did you see any of the pirates? What did they look like?" she asked eagerly.

Will had not really had a close look at any of the _Berenice_ 's attackers, but he closed his eyes and tried to remember, to please this odd girl. "They were an odd assortment," he said slowly. "Some of them were Africans, I'm almost certain – darker-skinned than any Spaniard I've ever seen. They seemed surprisingly well-dressed."

"I suppose they take their clothes from their prisoners," said Elizabeth, eyeing him. "Though they wouldn't have taken any from you, I expect."

"That is probably it," he agreed. "I was thrown from the ship before any of them boarded, though, so I had no chance to see any of them clearly. Just from across the water as they were firing on us, and then quite distantly when I was down on the water, on that hatch cover. I'm sorry I cannot tell you much more about them."

She looked disappointed. "That's all right. I suppose it's not a very pleasant topic for you anyway."

"Why are you so interested in pirates, if it's not an impertinent question?"

The girl shrugged her thin shoulders. "I don't know. Perhaps just that they seem so different from any people I've ever met, and yet I know that they are mostly Englishmen and sailors. The crew on this ship have all been very kind and polite to me – well, there is one who complains that I'm bad luck to have aboard because I'm a girl, but that's all. So what makes a man a pirate from being a decent ordinary sailor? Why would someone want to go out and do that?"

"For profit, I expect. Sometimes they begin as privateers – the crown hires them to attack enemy ships – but not all of them seem to stick to that. The temptation must be too great. That is why I thought the ship that attacked us was unusual. They did take away some of the goods in the hold as booty, but they would have had much more if they had been less careless in their methods; they could very likely have taken us without scuttling the _Berenice_ , and then they would have had a second ship with all her cargo. You must be right, it was someone aboard they wanted. I wonder who it could have been? Unless they thought that we were you, and were after the governor?"

"Then they might come back, once they realize."

Will thought he saw excitement rather than apprehension in her face. "They might, but there's no fog any more to conceal their approach, and this vessel looks to be well-armed, even better than the _Berenice_ was."

Unnoticed by either of them, Elizabeth's father approached. They were startled when he said pleasantly, "Feeling better, are you, lad?"

Will jumped to his feet and bowed. "Yes, sir, much better."

"My daughter is taking care of you? Not talking your ear off?"

"No sir. I mean, yes sir, Miss Elizabeth is taking good care of me. Thank you, sir."

"Father," said Elizabeth, "Will has come to the Caribbean to find his own father here, a merchant sailor. Can we help him?"

Governor Swann smiled indulgently at her. "I will do what I can, once we reach port. It would be a shame not to help out a boy who has managed to escape from pirates."

"Thank you, Father," said Elizabeth, and Will echoed, "Thank you very much, Governor."

"Now, boy, I'm going to claim you from my daughter for a little while. The captain and lieutenant would like to ask you some questions about the ship that attacked you."

Will saw Elizabeth open her mouth, then shut it again. He said honestly, "I will answer what I can, but I didn't see very much, I'm afraid."

"That's all right. Anything you can tell us will help. One of my purposes as governor is to reduce the number of pirates in these waters, you understand. Come along now."


	4. Port Royal

Will looked about eagerly as they entered Port Royal's harbor. He did not really expect to see the _Yancy_ , of course, but he hoped to. No such ship was in sight, and Will sighed and leaned against the rail.

"Aren't you glad to have made it here safely after all, Will?" Elizabeth's voice sounded from behind him.

"Of course, Miss Elizabeth."

"But you wanted your father's ship to be here," she guessed shrewdly. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll find him sooner or later. In the meantime I'll remind my father about you, shall I? He'll make certain that you are taken care of until your father appears."

He was uncomfortable with the idea of being beholden to the governor, but he smiled at the girl. Elizabeth was not at all what he would have imagined such a man's daughter to be like. They had had several very interesting conversations since Will had been rescued from the wreck of the _Berenice_. If she had been a boy, she would have been an excellent companion back in Portsmouth; as it was, her presence had made the past few days far less dull than they might have been. He would miss her after they landed, he decided.

Governor Swann had arranged with the lieutenant to have Will taken to decent lodgings, guaranteeing payment until his share of the salvage could be sold. Will quite liked Mistress Rackham, but he was impatient to find his father. Every day he haunted the docks, waiting for new ships to come in and questioning every sailor that he could convince to listen, asking if they knew anything of the _Yancy_ , or of William Turner. One or two squinted at him oddly, but none claimed to know any sailor by that name. The _Yancy_ , he found, was long overdue from the African leg of her last voyage, but no one knew whether her captain had decided to risk his luck in the ports of New Spain or New Portugal, or whether she was simply lost at sea.

"Or taken by pirates," said one man grimly. "Pirates seem thicker'n ever in these waters, and crueler. Used to be that they'd give the crew of a captured ship a chance to join them, or at least take them as prisoner. Now there are some who give no quarter, and send ship and crew alike down to Davy Jones." He saw Will's stricken expression and added, "Now lad, that's not to say that your da is lost. But best to know the truth."

Will nodded. The past several weeks had brought home to him that he might never find his father again – nor even know for certain if he was dead, or simply off somewhere on the high seas with no intention of returning to Jamaica. What worried him more now was what he would do when his funds ran out. He no longer had enough to make the start that he and his mother had hoped for him.

At the end of his sixth week in Port Royal, Will was just leaving Mistress Rackham's house when he was hailed. The man introduced himself as John Brown, blacksmith. "I had a note from Governor Swann," he said, "suggesting I take you on as apprentice. I could use a new lad – my last apprentice up and ran off to sea two months past, afore he'd worked off his time. Governor says he'll pay what you can't, for the articling. You'll be bound for seven years, I to find you room and board and teach you the art of smithing, you to work for me as I choose, with provision that you won't be treated as a servant. Are you willing?"

"Oh, yes sir," said Will. This was more than he had dared hope for, ever, except during the brief weeks when he had been the inheritor of two hundred pounds. "When do I start?"

"Monday – day after tomorrow. You'll bring your things to my place tomorrow night."

"I'll be there, sir," Will promised. "Thank you!"

Mistress Rackham frowned slightly when he burst into her kitchen with his news, but forbore to say anything except, "You can come to church with me tomorrow, then. I'll wash out your things tonight for you, and we can pack them up after services."

"Yes, ma'am, thank you." Will wondered why her mouth had set so disapprovingly. Surely she did not want him to miss such a chance?

"We'll miss your help around here," she said in a softer tone. "You're a good lad, Will. I hope your father returns to find what a good son he has."

"So do I," he muttered, looking at the floor, his excitement at the prospect of the apprenticeship now greatly diminished.

"Here – run out and bring me back a chicken for dinner," she said, counting out silver into his hand. "For your last day here. John Brown's not likely to feed you too well, widower as he is. You'll have to come back and visit me once in a while, and I'll spare you a bite."

Will smiled. He loved chicken the way Mistress Rackham roasted it, stuffed with every herb she grew in the pots crowding her windowsills. He would miss her cooking, that was certain, but it was worth it to be apprenticed to a good trade.

Having brought the fowl back from the market, Will went out again, dawdling his way through the dusty streets of Port Royal, enjoying his freedom while he could. Brown would probably have him working all seven days, or maybe he would have Sundays off at best. Seven years. Well, that was not too long. He looked up at the governor's mansion on the hill above town and wondered if he should go and thank the man. Probably, he decided. He smoothed his hair down as best he could and straightened his clothes as he stood before the massive entrance, lifting his hand timidly to knock.

"Yes?" A man in impressive livery frowned at him through the doorway.

"May I speak with the governor, please?"

"The governor is not at home, boy."

"Oh," said Will. "Well. . ."

He was about to turn away when they were interrupted.

"Will? Is that you?" Elizabeth Swann gestured imperiously at the butler. "Let him come in, Thomas. I'll speak with him."

"I just came to thank your father," Will told her as she led him into the hall. "He arranged for me to be apprenticed to John Brown, the blacksmith."

"Oh Will, that's wonderful," she said. "I'm so glad. You haven't heard anything of your father, have you?"

He shook his head glumly.

"I didn't think so. Father was telling me just the other evening that he had made some inquiries, but they had all come to nothing. I'm sorry. But there's still no reason to think he might not turn up, sooner or later. In the meantime – let me show you something." Triumphantly she pulled out a garishly illustrated pamphlet. "It's all about pirates. Corsairs on the Barbary coast. Read with me?"

"All right." It would probably be the last time he saw her for who knew how long. They went out into the garden and sat on a bench there, heads inclined together over the roughly-printed pages, until the lowering sun reminded Will that he had to leave.

"Goodbye, Miss Elizabeth."

" _Au revoir_ , Will Turner." She smiled impishly. "Until we meet again."


	5. Apprentice

It was hot in the smithy. But then, it was nearly always hot there, and especially where Will stood by the great leather bellows. Master Brown had not let him do much else, yet; he was still too small to be able to swing the heavy hammers accurately without being a danger to himself as well as his master.

Although he was an all-around blacksmith – shoeing a few horses and making assorted ironware for sale – Brown's specialty was as a bladesmith, forging knives and swords. Will felt lucky to have been apprenticed to him. That appreciation kept him working hard, despite his wish that Brown would begin to teach him something, and not just keep him carrying coke for the fire and pumping the bellows.

In fact, Will had secret plans to try working a bit on his own. Over the past sixteen months he had noticed that his master was taking longer and longer to return on those days when he went off to a tavern for lunch, and that he seemed to be drinking more ale than was good for him – or even rum, sometimes. Brown always told Will to let the forge alone in his absence, and merely stay to mind the shop if a customer came by, but Will intended to see if he could handle the hammer alone.

He had taken one of the red-hot bars with the tongs and set it on the anvil, grasping the hammer and just about to try a few taps, when a man came into the smithy. Will quickly shoved the bar back into the fire.

"Can I help you, sir?" he said politely.

The man grinned, showing the glint of gold teeth. He was an unusual-looking fellow, with beads braided into the hair of his beard and head. "You can, boy. I'm looking for a decent sword, not too dear. What do you have?"

Will showed him the selection. Master Brown always kept at least a dozen swords ready-made on hand, though he would make to order as well for clients who wanted something special, like filigree work or a blade longer or shorter than usual. The man looked them over carefully, raising first one, then another, and making a few practice swings.

"How much for this one?"

When Will told him the price – ten pounds – he frowned. "Anything less?"

"That one," Will pointed at the blade in question, "is only seven pounds fifteen. But I wouldn't recommend it."

"Why not, boy?"

Cautiously Will looked around. "I was here when Master Brown made it, sir, and it's not his best work. Tap it on the anvil – you'll hear that it doesn't ring true."

The man did so, and raised his brows at the off tone. "Well, which would you say I should get, then?"

"You chose the best one for the price the first time, sir. But if ten pounds is too much, then take this one, which is nine. It will serve you well."

"You didn't make it, did you?"

Will laughed. "No. I don't make anything, yet. But someday I shall."

The stranger looked him over and nodded. "You're wiry, but I think you've the strength for it – and the wit. Come, I'll offer you eight and a half for the blade."

"I'm sorry sir, I can't. Master Brown sets the prices – if I let you have it for less, he'll take it out of me, later."

"All right, then, nine." The man suddenly seemed in a hurry, and counted out the coins onto the anvil, snatching up the sword. "Let me give you a piece of advice, though. If you want to make a good blade, you need to know what a man wants from it. So learn to use them yourself; that will teach you how to make what you want."

"Yes, sir, I'm sure you're right. Thank you." Will watched the man out, noting that he pulled his three-cornered hat well down over his eyes before stepping into the square. He was sure from the way the fellow had walked that he was a sailor – not surprising in Port Royal, of course – and wondered if perhaps he was a pirate. None of his business, of course, but he might have asked if the man had ever heard of William Turner, or the _Yancy_.

For his father and the ship both seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Everyone Will had asked denied knowing any William or Bill Turner. As for the _Yancy_ , he had twice met men who had sailed on her some years back, but neither could tell him what had happened to her since, or even say if his father had been on her crew in the meantime. Reluctantly Will had come to the conclusion that she must have sunk or been taken. He still had a faint hope that his father might not have been on her at the time, and might still return to Jamaica and Port Royal, but that hope grew steadily less.

Now it was too late for him to try again with the iron, for Brown might return at any moment. Will sighed. Putting the swords he had been showing the customer away again, he paused. The man's advice was probably good, he considered. It only made sense, that using the blades would teach him what was most needed in them. But sword-play was not something that he could learn alone. Once he knew something, perhaps he could practice alone, but he needed a teacher to begin with. Whom could he ask?

Will mulled over the possibilities all afternoon, as he pushed the bellows-handles up and down. One positive thing about not having more interesting work to do was that he had plenty of time to think – too much time, usually. At last he decided to ask Rhys Jones, who worked in the public stable. Rhys had been a soldier, once, but had been wounded so badly in the leg that he could no longer walk well. He would know something of swords, enough at least to teach Will the basics, and he was a reasonably friendly fellow.

At the end of the day, Will was cleaning up with a few bits of help from Brown when his master said unexpectedly, "How old are you now, Will?"

"Fifteen – next month."

"All right. You're about big enough now to be able to swing those hammers, I think, and I can hire a little lad to pump the bellows if we need it. Tomorrow I'll show you how to work wrought iron."

Will's heart leaped. "Thank you, sir," he said fervently. "I'll get up extra early and stoke the fires."

"You do that." Brown looked around. "I'll be out this evening. You latch the door, and don't fall so sound asleep that you don't hear me come back."

"No sir," Will promised, and Brown left.

Leaving the smithy for the living chamber behind, Will looked at the blade he had disparaged earlier, running his finger along the edge carefully, and grinned. "I'll make swords ten times better than you are – someday. Someday soon."


	6. Learning

He looked down at her, though that was not as easy as it once had been – more pretense than anything else. Elizabeth had grown to a fine height for a woman, while he had not added more than a few inches. Mistress Rackham, looking at his hands and feet, assured him that he would yet grow more, and he should not worry. Most of the time he did not. Working at the forge had strengthened him, and practice with the sword had made him limber and quick over the past year. He could hold his own against any of the lads his own age and those three years older, even if he was not so tall or broad as they.

"Yes, Miss Swann?"

Her brows drew together in a faint frown. "You used to call me by my name, Will."

"It would not be right, now, Miss Swann." He could be as stubborn as she.

She sighed impatiently. "Oh, very well. I want to get Father a knife for Christmas. Something he can use to open letters with, or parcels, not one for cutting meat."

"I see. Let me show you what we have." Will laid out blade after blade in front of her, until there were fifteen arranged neatly in a row, each blade facing at attention in the same direction. Her hand hovered over them, fingers barely brushing the handles of each, and then she lifted the one with the ebony handle.

"This. I will take this one."

"Very well, Miss Swann. Let me wrap it for you." He took her coins and the knife, binding it about with a long strip of linen and tying the parcel with a length of coarse string before returning it to her.

Elizabeth glanced around the shop. As was usual these days, Master Brown was taking a lengthy noontime meal over at the tavern, and Will was on his own to make and mend and tend to business.

"You must get lonesome, here by yourself," she remarked, "with only the donkey to keep you company."

"Not really," he replied, glad that his face was browned enough from the sun not to show his blush. He was rarely lonely, for when he was working or practicing he had no time to miss human companionship, and he spent the solitary hours of the night thinking of her. But that was not something he could tell the daughter of the governor of the colony. Kind as she had always been to him, she was far beyond his reach. He had to exercise tight self-control, though, when she touched his hand.

"No, but you must be," she insisted. "You should come up to visit me sometime, Will."

"I'm afraid I couldn't do that."

"Whyever not?"

"I'm an apprentice, Miss Swann," he reminded her patiently. "The only free time I have is what Master Brown gives me."

She brushed that aside. "I could send for you, Will. He would let you come then, surely."

"It would not look right," he said. "Your father would not approve."

"Father would not object," she said, but he saw a shadow of wariness in her eyes.

"He would," Will repeated gently, "and he would be right to do so. It would be unsuitable, you know that."

She sighed. "We are both apprentices, Will. You to be a smith, and I to be a lady. At least you had some choice in the matter."

"Very little," Will smiled. "Had Governor Swann not spoken to Master Brown, and paid a good part of my indentures, I would have likely ended up as a stableboy – or perhaps a cabin boy on a ship, if luck were with me. No one asked me if smithcraft was my choice, or if I would prefer woodworking or weaving or something else instead. I do like it, but that is my good fortune."

"Oh," Elizabeth said. "I never quite thought of matters in those terms before. Boys have so many more possibilities open to them overall, that I forget that a particular person might not have so many options. But still, at least you have something worthwhile to do. The most useful thing that I have done this month was to mend my own dress where I had torn it, rather than giving it to Mary to sew."

Will thought to himself that a girl like Elizabeth had no need to be useful. Just being there before him was enough.

"I wish," she said, and stopped.

"What do you wish?"

"Nothing. Nothing that matters." The bell of the town's clock tolled one. "I must go. Thank you for your help, Will, I am sure that Father will like his gift very much indeed." Despite her assertion, she lingered a moment longer. "Did you make it?"

"I did," he admitted. "The blade, that is. We buy the handles from Ned Barker over the way."

"Good, I'm glad that I chose this one then. Well – good-bye."

Will stood in the doorway and watched Elizabeth walk across the square, a slender upright figure to whom everyone seemed to give way automatically. Then he heaved a great sigh and turned back to the hot forge, hammering at the iron for a new blade until the sparks flew like a cloud of midges around him.

That evening he made his way as usual to meet Rhys Jones for a lesson. It went badly from the first moment. Each swing he tried to make was blocked, each thrust parried. Finally Will threw up his hands and said in disgust, "It's no good tonight."

Rhys stepped back and looked at him in the dim light of the half-moon. "That's when you need to work hardest, Will. Why d'you want to learn to fight, anyhow?"

Will shrugged. "I started because someone suggested I'd make better swords if I knew how to use one. But now – I suppose for the challenge of it."

"And here's your challenge, and best you keep on with it, no? So again."

Half-an-hour later, panting, they stopped. "That was better," allowed Rhys. "If you ever have to fight someone for real, they won't let you off just because you're not at the top of your form. Now, let's go find us a mug of something, shall we?"

"I can't, Rhys. I have to be back soon."

"Oh, old man Brown is probably already drunk and asleep. He won't even know, much less care, if you're a bit behind your time."

"All right, but just one."

They stepped into the tavern and Rhys called for two glasses of rum. Will tried to refuse, but Rhys said, "Don't think I don't remember what day it is, lad."

"What day it is?"

"Your birthday, isn't it? You told me last year. And you sixteen now – you can handle the rum. Drink up," he added as it arrived.

Will spluttered a bit when he first drank, but soon grew accustomed to the strong liquor. "I was distracted tonight," he confessed to Rhys. "Mind not on the sword."

"I know," said Rhys. "Can't let that happen. That's what happened to me, you see, and look at me now," he indicated his game leg. "Have to pay attention."

"Yes." Will was silent, turning the glass around and around in his fingers. At last he drank off the last of it and stood. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."


	7. A Decent Man

"Seven!" said Hal Wilkinson triumphantly. The other lads groaned as he reached in to scoop up the dice. "Pay up, fellows," he added, looking around.

Will watched as they counted out their pennies to him. He was not playing the game, only observing. He tried not to spend his money on such things; besides, he was not very good at dice.

"No, that's all for tonight," said Hal, counting. "I'll stop while I've enough money to buy some companionship for the evening – and I don't mean yours."

There were a few glares and mumbles as Hal turned to leave. "Come on, Will," he said. "Have a drink with me."

Will shrugged and went. He and Hal, a journeyman sailmaker, were fairly good friends, in part because Will would not dice against him and so never grew angry at losing.

"You spend it as fast as you win it," he said half-enviously to the older boy.

Hal laughed. "I suppose so, but why should I save it, when I can buy me some pleasure instead? You ought to try it sometime, Will."

"I never win at dice," Will replied.

"You don't practice enough, that's why," said Hal.

"Well, I won't practice against you," said Will, laughing. "You would clean my purse of every last penny."

"I might at that. But seriously, Will, I hardly ever see you spend any money, save on a drink or two now and again. What d'you save it for?"

"Oh, someday, not too long now, I'll no longer be apprentice to Master Brown, and I'd like to be able to set up on my own. A glass of rum or ale on occasion is one thing, but if I spent money on fine clothes, what would I have at the end of it? Nothing."

"You should at least be willing to spend it on pleasurable company," said Hal as they neared the _Copper Groat_. "That Jane, there, she's a fine-looking girl. Nicely rounded, she is."

Will looked at the girl in question as they entered. She was young, no more than sixteen or seventeen, he thought, about his own age, with yellow hair and fair though grimy skin. Pretty enough, but. . . He shook his head at Hal. "No, I'll pay for no woman," he said.

Hal snorted. "Waiting till you marry?"

"Yes."

"You'll pay more that way," said Hal. "A wife you have to support – food and clothes and then the children coming along, too. And after all that, she'll tell you ‘not tonight, I have a headache.'"

"Maybe so," said Will, "but still. One woman, that's all I ever intend to have."

"I don't understand you, Will, but suit yourself. Here," he handed Will some coins, "get us a drink while I talk to Jane and see if she's free tonight."

Will carried their two glasses over to a table in the corner where they usually sat and watched Hal and Jane together. He missed Rhys Jones on evenings like this; the older man had been good company, as well as Will's teacher at swordplay, but when Rhys had unexpectedly inherited a piece of land back in Wales a year ago, he had jumped at the chance to leave his work in the stables. He knew that his friends thought it most peculiar that he would never spend time with Jane or any of the other whores in Port Royal – even Rhys had commented on it, once or twice. Some of them called him "Parson" because of it. Will did attend church nearly every Sunday, except when there was a last-minute job at the smithy, but he did so more for the weekly glimpses of Elizabeth as she and Governor Swann came in and out, rather than from any great faith of his own. His reasons for not wishing to be with another woman came from another source entirely. Will closed his eyes and remembered the last time he had seen his father.

 

* * *

William Turner was in Portsmouth on one of his rare visits. He had been there only a fortnight when he came home from the docks one evening in high good spirits, to tell them that he was shipping out on the _Yancy_ in four days.

"Margaret, my girl, it's a fine opportunity," he said, catching Will's mother up by the elbows and whirling her around. "A fine opportunity. A merchant ship, trading to Africa and the Caribbean."

Will's mother essayed a smile. "I'm sure it is, William, but must you go so soon?"

"You know I must. Time and tide, as they say. But you'll be all right. I've left you. . . what we talked about." He kissed her soundly. "Now, why don't Will and I go for a bit of a stroll, out from under your feet while you're making supper."

He held out his hand to Will, but Will would not take it. William Turner frowned at that, and put his hand on his son's shoulder, guiding him outside to the narrow cobbled street.

"All right, Will," he said, once they were away from the house. "I'll not tolerate disrespect from my son."

Will kicked at a rock, succeeding only in banging his toe. "Why d'you have to go so soon?" he muttered. "Why can't you stay in Portsmouth?"

William went down on one knee and made Will look at him. "What would you have me do in Portsmouth?" he said. "Work on the docks? Be a sailmaker or a cooper or some such trade that pens a man up in a little shop all day? I cannot do that. It's no life for a free man, and I'll not give up the freedom of the ocean."

"Your freedom," said Will, and could not keep the bitterness from his voice. "I know what kind of freedom sailors want, I hear them boasting about it. A woman in every port, and a gaggle of children from each."

His father's strong fist clouted him over the ear, though not as hard as Will knew he deserved. "You'll not be accusing me to my own face of such things. Your mother is the only woman for me, and you're my only son, Will, the only child of my body. I'm a decent man, I hope, though I have my failings. I keep my word. To take a wife is a serious thing, and when I wed your mother I swore to have no other, nor did I have any other woman. So you remember that."

Will rubbed at his ear, but nodded.

"Now then," said William Turner. "Let's see what your mother has cooked for us tonight. She has the best way with oysters that I've ever known."

* * *

"Daydreaming, Will?" Hal's voice interrupted his reverie. "Here's Jane come to say how d'ye do."

"Good evening, Jane," said Will.

She smiled sweetly at him. "Not interested tonight, are you?"

"No, thank you. Hal will have to be man enough for both of us," he said.

"Oh, I will be." Hal took up his glass and downed the contents in a single gulp. "Thanks, Will," he added as Will handed him the rest of the money. "Come on, Jane."

They headed out, Jane pressed up against Hal almost as if she cared for him. Will watched them go and shook his head. A serious thing, to have a woman, his father had told him. When he found a wife, she would be his alone, and he hers, just as William Turner had said a decent man would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Julie and Meg for their suggestions about why Will might have the attitude he does towards women.


	8. Lost and Found

"Delicious, as always, ma'am," said Will. He stood and out of long-standing habit reached for the dishes, to carry them off for washing.

Mistress Rackham frowned at him, her twinkling eyes belying the stern expression. "Sit, Will. Today you're not to do a lick of work. We are celebrating the end of your apprenticeship!"

Will glanced quickly at the half-recumbent figure of his employer drowsing across the table. "Ah, the work does not cease, only that I will be paid for it, now that Master Brown has agreed that I have the skills necessary to move from apprentice to journeyman. But I thank you, mistress, as I thank Master Brown for letting me close the shop today in honor of the occasion." He sat back down and lifted his mug again.

Not surprisingly, Master Brown had held him to every day of the seven-year apprenticeship contract, though they both knew that Will had mastered every skill two twelvemonths since. It was Will who produced almost all of their stock-in-trade in blades, and shoed the few horses brought to boot, while Brown limited himself to simple items that he could manage with shaking hands and bloodshot eyes. Common courtesy demanded that Brown be acknowledged as the maker of all, though, so Will held his tongue when his work was praised by a customer and Brown accepted the compliments as his own due.

He could not complain too much about Master Brown, who had recently been giving him more free time to work at what he wanted – practicing the technique of inlaying filigree, for instance, while Brown "quenched his thirst," as he put it. Privately Will considered that such a thirst could only be completely quenched if there were a second Flood like Noah's, but he kept that thought to himself. He would have liked to be released early, of course, but there was no legal obligation on Brown's part to do so, and naturally he wished to retain the service of such a skilled apprentice.

In any event he had had no better place to go, even if Brown had released him early. He might have crossed the bay to Kingston, or perhaps gone further afield to St. Kitts or New Providence, although the latter island was, he knew, greatly troubled by pirates. Leaving Port Royal, though, would mean leaving behind the few ties he had, and he was strangely reluctant to do so. Elizabeth Swann might be far above his aspirations, kind as she had always been to him, but his Sunday glimpses of her and her rare visits to the smithy lent meaning to his life. Then too he had his friends: Mistress Rackham treated him like a favorite nephew, and he had comrades enough among the other apprentices of the town. Over the years he had even grown to know some of the sailors who made regular stops in Port Royal.

Today was Saturday, and after a comfortable afternoon spent with Mistress Rackham drinking tea and listening to her good-natured gossip about her neighbors, Will decided to go to the tavern for the evening. He still frequented the _Copper Groat_ , finding it more to his liking than the _Bell &Whistle_ where Brown spent most of his days. The _Groat_ attracted a younger crowd, leavened by a good sprinkling of sailors. Even after seven years, Will asked on occasion if anyone had ever heard of the _Yancy_ and of her fate, though by now he knew it was unlikely he would learn anything. But tonight there were a number of strange faces to be seen, so Will began the familiar ritual of insinuating himself into conversations, perhaps buying the man a drink, and then making his inquiries.

To his very great surprise, tonight his questions received an answer.

Davy Maddox – that was the fellow's name, so he said. He had a grizzled head of hair that had once been red and was now faded by sun and age, and his nose appeared to have been broken several times, probably in brawls, Will thought. But he was less surly than Will would have guessed at first, and became quite voluble after Will offered him a glass of rum.

"The _Yancy_? Aye, I recollect the old _Yancy_. Merchant ship, wasn't she. Used to be in the rum trade, sometimes slaves, sometimes sugar. Sad, what happened to her."

"What did happen?" asked Will eagerly.

"Ah, now, that must have been nigh on eight years ago. I'd shipped out on the _Turtledove_. Foolish name for a slaving ship, but the ship's owner insisted. Or perhaps it was his wife, I heard the money was all hers. 'T any rate, we were carrying a cargo from the Ivory Coast, intending to sell to the Portuguese for their sugar plantations. We'd crossed the Atlantic wi' no sign of trouble, when we caught sight of a ship before us.

"Near to foundering, she was. Could hardly believe she was still afloat. It was the _Yancy_ , as we saw when we came closer. Our cap'n ordered the longboats out, sent some of us over to see what had happened."

To see what you could salvage, Will thought, listening.

Maddox continued, "When we reached her and went aboard, it was clear she'd been attacked by pirates. Bodies sprawled across the deck, half her rigging shot away, hold emptied of anything valuable. What surprised me most was that they hadn't taken her as a prize. Torn up, she was, but she would've been sound enough to get to a port for repairs. Strange, that.

"Judging from the number of corpses we found, I think that crew and cargo alike were all present and accounted for. No survivors. Or if the pirates had taken any living from the ship, we wouldn't've known. They might have taken a slave woman or two. There were some empty sets of manacles. But that could've been from losses on the crossing.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you that," he finished, "but if your father was on the _Yancy_ , then ye'd best acquaint yourself wi' grief, for he won't be coming back."

Will was nodding slowly, absorbing the tale. He had held on to so little hope that William Turner might return that the shift from "little hope" to "no hope" was a relief more than anything. "Can I buy you another drink?" he offered. "The least I can do for the man who could tell me what must have happened to my father."

"If ye insist, boy," said Maddox. "I'll never turn down a drink kindly offered."

Will waited politely until Maddox had finished and one of his shipmates had joined them and begun speculating on where they would be off to next. Then he slipped away, back to the smithy, where he could think matters over.

For a day that had started off so well, it had ended with – not failure, exactly, but grief. He had found his father, only to lose him again forever. It could make no difference to him, really, but nonetheless he mourned anew for the loss of that half-remembered handsome face, the clasp of a strong hand on his shoulder, the voice saying proudly, "That's my boy," when Will had shown him how well he could read in his primer.

He sat near the forge, banked now for the night but still giving off heat in great waves. Will contemplated his future. He could stay here at Master Brown's indefinitely, perhaps, but did he really wish to? He shook his head, certain that Brown would prefer to keep him as journeyman, despite having to pay him a wage, for even in his drunkenness Brown was sharp enough to know he could no longer take and train a new apprentice.

Until he made a decision about the course his future would take, Will resolved, he would take advantage of his situation to hone his skills both in smithcraft and in swordplay. Brown might think him a fool or worse to spend three hours a day with the sword, but Will thought Brown the bigger fool, and heavy though the sword was, it was lighter by far than a smith's hammer. Will did wish he could find a partner to practice with regularly, as he had once trained with Rhys Jones, but working alone was better than nothing.

Will stood again and stretched. As he went to close the shutters over the one glassed window near the door, he thought for an instant that he saw the shade of William Turner outside, looking in at him and smiling – then he realized that it was only his own reflection in the night-darkened glass.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Meg, who came up with the perfect title for this story.


End file.
